


Find That Little Vein

by Megalomaniacal



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megalomaniacal/pseuds/Megalomaniacal
Summary: You think, you think you're pretty smartBut I can cause a little painShe wraps the cord around her armTries hard to find the little vein





	Find That Little Vein

**Author's Note:**

> This is actual garbage but I wanted to post something so here you go  
> Very poorly based around The Brobecks' "Visitation of the Ghost"

When Mac was nine years old, he smoked his first cigarette. He got his hands on weed in his early teens. Weed turned to cocaine. Then, once he was seventeen, his dad visited on a parole break from prison.

The first time Mac McDonald did heroin, it was his dad plunging the drug into his veins. He remembered the rush. The pain, quickly flooded out with the thrill of the drug. His father praising him. The cord tied around his arm. The blood filling the plunger. It was heaven and he couldn't get away from it. He didn't want to. It was the one thing that made him feel better than anything else.

Then Dennis came around.

He'd given Dennis his first shot of heroin. He remembered promising it was free before tying an old rag around his arm and plunging it in. He remembered how Dennis's muscles went rigid as his blood swirled into the syringe. The way his eyes rolled back when it hit him.

He was lucky to remember as much as he did.

His childhood best friend, Charlie Kelly, had died at age twenty-one from overdose. No one knew if it was intentional or an accident. Mac had stopped taking drugs for a while- that is, if two months counted as "a while.' Doing drugs helped him ignore the aching hole in his chest that Charlie left behind. Sure, when Mac was sober he worried about the extent of his and Dennis's drug use, but he was never sober.

Dennis had such a pretty, pretty, pretty little face. A witness to each and every shot of heroin Mac took. Mac loved Dennis, but only when he was high. He never got sober so that he'd never have to fall out of love, or some other pathetic excuse he'd made for himself.

He was too drugged up to see the warning signs, too high to realize Dennis was barely even getting out of bed anymore. The other still stroked his hair and called him baby boy, but his hands shook and his skin was pale and seemed to hang from his body, as if he was just a sad bag of bones. His veins were faded and hard to find, arms scarred and marked up with tiny dots from the needle.

He should've known. He should've heard the change in Dennis's voice and the way his touches had weakened. He should've stopped shooting up with him. He should've known.

Mac McDonald was twenty seven when the love of his life died. Dead before thirty, just like his old best friend. Dead and lying on a dirty mattress in the middle of a small room in a crummy apartment. Dead, and with no one to pay for a funeral or even care enough to have one. Mac wondered if it was an accident, the final push over the edge. He wondered if it was his fault. He decided that he was.

Life grows bleak after one's soulmate dies. It's as if the world has gone gray and every matter is black and white. As if even the heroin in your veins can't lift you out of that bed where you used to lay beside him. Was it worth it? Mac spent nights lying awake, wondering. Was it worth it to die slowly just for the thrill of what felt like gold rushing through his veins?

It didn't feel like gold anymore.

It felt cold, like the icy whispers of how it was his fault, how he was the one who got Dennis hooked on heroin, how if he'd just paid attention he could've known. Mac wish it had been him instead. Dennis was far too smart, far too pretty, and Mac- Mac was useless.

He hung around bars, getting tossed around like some cheap whore, not even caring where he woke up in the morning as long as he couldn't remember the night before. At some point he lost fifty pounds. At another he found himself unable to find a vein to plunge the drugs into anymore. No drugs, no Dennis. Mac was a dead end.

He would take every single drug in the world just to see his lover again. He'd abandon them all as well. Anything just to experience the visitation of a ghost- the ghost of who his lover had once been. A warm body turned cold against his own.

When Mac McDonald was twenty nine years old, a young boy found his body cold, dead, and lying in an alleyway between two dumpsters.


End file.
